Summer Squall draft chapter 1

“It’s good you’re here,” said the pony-tailed man in a Metallica t-shirt and jorts, settling heavily into the porch swing with a glass of bourbon. Heat lightning flashed far off in the dark sky. Beneath a thundercloud the sun was a peachy sliver along the horizon. “We’re glad to answer any questions you might have,” he continued in a tone of voice Mark associated with mandatory corporate team-building workshops. He inhaled deeply. The air hung heavy with the scent of hay and red mud, in contrast to downtown Knoxville where he walked daily from his apartment complex to the city courthouse. A firefly landed on his glass rim, languidly beating its wings.

“That means the world to me,” sighed the girl, smoothing her eyelet lace sundress over a toned thigh and taking a bite of a strawberry. “It’s a blessing to find a place where I can be myself.” Her long hair fell in tendrils out of its clasp, silver hoop earrings shimmering under a duct-taped overhead bulb. She had a rural accent softer than the heavy drawling twang of the men. It made him think of the sparse settlements around Smoky Mountains coves he knew from his time as a state prosecutor.

“Yes indeed,” exclaimed a bespectacled man with thumbs hooked in his suspenders, a prominent Adam’s apple shifting. “If there is anything we can do for you — at all — we’re here for you, honey.” Inside the farmhouse behind the house, someone began to tune a mandolin.

“Won’t regret coming,” “You’ll feel right at home,” added a couple of other farmers, slouched on wicker porch chairs. Thunder rolled in the distance.

“My god,” thought Mark, “they all must be pushing fifty — they could be her grandfathers.” His face flushed as if he had heard something indecent, listening to the men fall over themselves gentling her. He wanted to sweep the girl up in his arms and stride away from their pawing eyes, like the lead in black and white 1950s westerns he sometimes watched on TNT. At the same time he wanted to leave the unsightly, creaking porch and never see her or any of these people again. His eyes shifted uneasily over windblown blackberry bushes and honeysuckle vines snaking the porch railings.

A spidery woman with electric blue mascara stood up to walk inside the screen door. She tried to make eye contact and faintly rolled her eyes, as if she knew what he was thinking and shared the joke, but he looked away. He traced the outline of his wedding ring jutting from his khaki pocket and tugged at his tie. If they wanted to make fools of themselves with a young woman with whom they had no chance, that was their concern.

Mark regretted letting his raquetball partner Bo talk him into the long drive to the outskirts of Chattanooga, on the weekend when his wife was out of town visiting — she’d claimed — her sister in Georgia. In the locker room after their game at the UT alumni gym one night when they were last to leave, Bo made a crude sex joke. Mark had started to weep. He had not cried since childhood; not even at his father’s funeral when he was a teen, or the day his mother had dropped him off with her parents when she moved to New Orleans.

“Nice to meet you folks. I’m heading home,” he said, standing up. The other men nodded affably, then returned their attention to the girl. He slipped past couples in animated conversation in the hallway on the way to the kitchen. He could barely remember what he had expected. Bo had gone outside with a woman who seemed to be an old friend to look at the horse stables and never come back. The hostess, red Medusa curls jouncing as she filled an ice bucket, smiled brightly and asked him where he was from. Blushing, he stored his glass in the dishwasher, replied about northern Tennessee and backed away.

“Wait,” a voice rang out as he opened the door to his truck. Mark glanced over his shoulder. The girl in the eyelet lace dress waved at him from the porch steps. He could barely make out her form in the shadows. Then someone switched on a lamp, and her dress gleamed like gossamer against the wooden railings.

“Pardon, my bike got a flat tire when I rode here, and you’re the only one with a flatbed truck. Would you mind please driving me home?”

A chorus of voices layered over each other as all the men on the porch offered assistance: “I’d be much obliged — ”; “Could take the front wheel off — ”; “You’re welcome to stay for the night, sweetheart.”

Mark swiftly lifted her bike onto the tarp in his Chevy’s bed and opened the passenger door for her. “Of course I’ll drive you home,” he cut them off, more loudly than he had intended, heart pounding.

“I hope I don’t trouble you none. I live in a trailer park up in Signal Mountain,” the girl said, tapping dirt from her worn boots. “It’s on your way into town.” She was taller than he would have guessed and climbed into the high truck interior with a lithe ease. “How strong her arms are,” he thought as she tucked away a bike helmet and fiddled in her purse for chapstick. Her skin glowed in the sweltering heat, and the scent of clean hair seemed to fill the truck. He wondered if she were still in college, if she played a sport.

“That’s fine,” he said. “Just type your address into Google Maps on my phone if that’s easiest.” Closing the door, he added, “I’m not from here.”

“Don’t reckon you’ll get a signal. I’ll let you know where to turn. Where you from?” she asked as he turned on the ignition. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she added softly.

“My god, I’m boring as fuck,” Mark thought to himself. Images flashed in his head of nights leading up to his marriage after high school graduation, driving Candace to the movies in her station wagon in pure, unremitting silence broken only by a dangling plastic cross; straining for conversation raw material, trying not to take his eyes off the road when her platinum blonde hair caught his eye. His brain leapfrogged over possible conversation topics in rapid fire — the Vols’ next season, the upcoming governor race, infighting at TVA, the brewing storm — leaving him tongue-tied.

“I’d rather not, if that’s alright. I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“If what does?”

“Sharing a ride with a man whose name and home town you don’t know.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, as if this had just occurred to her. “But you seemed so — ”

“Straight laced?” Mark offered flatly.

“You didn’t say nothing. But I felt like, I trust you. No cab gonna to come all the way out here in the wheat fields anyways. Turn right at the crossing here, then you’ll drive a ways yonder and take the first exit to Signal. There’s a firecracker store with a big old neon sign right before the turn-off.”

“I can’t believe you came all this way on your bike. You don’t have a roommate or family member who can drive you?”

“Nobody with wheels. Sure I’m not asking my church friends to this,” she said with a wry smile. “It was my first time. Nobody know about me. Didn’t want to give my name neither.”

“Understood,” Mark said.

“But I’ll tell you my first name. I’m Shayna.”

“Pleased to meet you. Do you enjoy living in Signal Mountain?” Mark wanted to ask her if she lived alone, but refrained. He remembered how when he was in high school, “Shayna” was a derogatory term for girls who lived in subsidized housing, hung out smoking on the sidewalk, and slept with athletes.

“It’s alright. I play mountain dulcimer in a bluegrass bland. A girl group. We’re moving to Nashville at the end of the summer. I work as a cashier at the Save-A-Lot and can do the same there. I won’t ask if you’re on Instagram,” she added, glancing at him. “Otherwise I’d show you our concert pics.” In his peripheral vision, he could see the truck’s dashboard lights shining on her bare arms.

“Nashville. That’s far. Well, I wish you good luck there,” he replied, not knowing what else to say. Then he added, “my daughter moved to Nashville last month. She’ll be a freshman at Vandy in the fall, and she’s taking engineering courses this summer to get a head start.”

He instantly regretted bringing up Carli. “Why am I talking to her as if she’s my colleague on a coffee break,” he thought. “She must think I’m 100 years old.” The thought of dropping his daughter off at the dorm reminded him of how eerily quiet the house had become without her sports equipment, boisterous energy, and non-stop fashion reality TV shows dominating the living room. Now Candace would come home from the firm after dark, microwave the frozen TV meals she preferred, log into her computer in her study, and come out just before bed. He braked sharply for a possum hustling across the road.

“That’s real nice about your daughter,” the girl replied, carefully, after a pause. When he didn’t speak, she continued, “To be honest I wouldn’t be brave enough to come out here and meet folks if I weren’t good as gone. By the way, if you aren’t from here, why did you come to a bdsm meetup out in the middle of nowhere? Didn’t seem none too interested neither.” The way she gave the word “M” two syllables, ee-um, made the nerves in the back of his neck twitch.

Mark opened his mouth, but his voice caught in his throat. They drove on in silence past massive silos, a roadside clapboard church, and a vast, sloping valley. He accelerated and felt a rush of freedom on the empty country road.

“Are you married?” Her voice was quiet but clear as a bell.

“If I may be frank with you. My wife and I haven’t slept together in over five years,” Mark replied after a long pause. “Her decision, which I respected. We did our best to give our daughter a stable life. Candace was a single mother when we met in high school, and I adopted Carli after we married. We committed to co-parenting together and worked well as a team. Our daughter has advantages I never dreamed of when I was her age.”

Lightning flashed in the sky, nearer than before. Limestone outcroppings flanking a forest replaced the valley as they gained elevation.

“But after the first few years, we were like two roommates rather than a married couple.”

He felt himself rambling, not knowing if she cared one way or the other, but feeling obliged to justify what must look like an attempt to be unfaithful.

“Over the years I thought, it was because I was unattractive. Or lousy in bed. A couple years ago I started to bike every morning, and I lost 30 pounds. But that didn’t change anything.”

He paused for several moments to give her a chance to change the subject. He could feel her looking at him intently without speaking.

“Maybe I’m bad at sex. I’m Baptist; I’ve only had one partner, so I don’t know if the problem was me, or if my wife simply didn’t enjoy it that much. Most likely me. In any case, I hope she finds the happiness I couldn’t give her with her new friend.”

The girl opened her mouth as if to speak. She closed her lips, reached out, and rested her fingers on his forearm. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, feeling his muscles tense then relax.

“Pull in here,” she said. Mark turned on off on a dirt road leading to a poorly lit trailer park with a faded letterboard sign displaying the name ‘Windy Holler.’ “Would you like to come in for a drink? Or do you need to get on.”

“Yes,” Mark said, after a long pause. “Thank you. That would be nice.”

The park was ringed with magnolias and thick tall conifers. Cigarette smoke and weed hung heavy in the air. He could hear broken glass crunch under the girl’s boots as he stepped around a used condom. A Hank Williams song, salsa, and 90s house played from open windows as they walked down a long line of silver trailers. A wave of pure, irrational fear rose up his esophagus, almost making him gag. He considered apologizing, pointing out the storm that was about to hit, and starting the long drive home; she could not fault him. Finally, she stopped at the end of the long row and unlocked the last trailer’s door.

“I don’t deserve this chance,” Mark thought. Fragments of PornHub and xHamster videos he watched nightly in the basement flashed through his head. He had no idea how to make them reality. In the videos, women quickly took initiative, and things just sort of flowed. He wished he had a briefcase or other prop to hide his hard-on.

The girl’s home was exceptionally clean. Aluminum steps creaked under their steps, and Mark ducked his head as he went through the door. There was a bingo table with two folding chairs, and a green liquor bottle filled with thimbleweed, bluebells, and clover sweetened the air. Not far away he could hear two men with heavy southern accents argue about money. His eyes traveled over a plywood counter, fly swatter hanging from a hook, fire extinguisher, and roach spray canister; then to the left, a sewing machine, mannequin, and a twin bed with a white quilt. The single window had sky blue cotton curtains that looked as if she had made them herself.

“If you don’t mind me asking, does your wife know you are here?” Shayna asked, pouring water into a kettle and gesturing to him to sit down.

“She’s with her, I guess you could say, her friend this weekend. I swear I wasn’t snooping her phone. But his text show up when she left it on the counter.”

“Have yall agreed to see other folks?”

“No. I mean — maybe. One night I told her if she wanted to go outside our marriage, that would be fine with me. She was upset to hear me put this into words, but she didn’t say no. We didn’t discuss it further.”

“I’m real sorry I’m asking so many questions. I’m trying to understand. But we don’t have to talk any more about your private life,” she said, resting her back against the counter. Her eyes were dark blue fringed with thick gray lashes.

“You can ask me questions too, if you want to. You seem real nice. And I reckon I won’t see you again after tonight.”

Mark stared at the clear green glass and the delicate shapes of the bluebells. Her voice was light and soft. Involuntarily he pictured resting his head on her thigh gentle fingers stroking his hair. He liked how soothing vowels sounded in her mouth, how her “I” sounded like “ah.” Then the image of her kneeling before him flickered in his mind: downcast eyes and honey hair spilling loose on her shoulders, inching closer, a smell of worn leather, every cell in his body ignited. He quickly forced the image away. The decades since he had been on anything resembling a date rose up thickly in his consciousness. “Why am I here?,” he thought bleakly. A memory of standing at dawn on a cliff in the Smoky Mountains with a thousand foot drop flashed in his mind, dissolving his fantasy.

“Alright. If you don’t mind my asking, why did you come tonight? I’m not sure what you like or what you’re looking for. But you’re beautiful. You should have no trouble at all finding someone at your college or in the bluegrass scene. It’s different for a 45-year old man with glasses and greying hair. I mean, my sex life for all intents and purposes is over. I came tonight with a friend, but I doubt I’ll go back.” His mouth felt full of cotton.

Shayna blushed. “Well. It’s hard to talk about. For one thing, I never went to college. No cash, didn’t want no big loan. And I’ve only been with one other guy. We were together since middle school. There’s only been the one.”

“Vanilla?”

“This is private but it’s not like yall gonna meet any time soon. Before he and I were together, one night he got drunk and slapped the girl he was with who had cheated on him. He told me he’d carry that burden all his life. Wouldn’t hurt a hair on my head. Once I got my courage up and tried to show him what I wanted to try. But it brought back his memory of that one time he done her wrong. We parted ways not too long ago. Figured maybe I could explore this part of me before I settle down again.”

“Makes sense. I’m sorry to hear that,” Mark said carefully.

Shayna gave him a small smile, poured their drinks into pastel orange UT mugs, and sat in the folding chair next to him.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you realize you were — that you like what you like?”

“I always know’d I’m made how I am. But my parents never laid a finger on me. May they rest in peace.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Was a while back. No idea where daddy is, probably in a ditch somewhere. Mother passed when I was young. I grew up on my grandparents’ farm in Gatlinburg.” She traced a pale pink fingernail around the rim of her glass.

Mark looked out the flimsy door’s window into the forest. A crescent moon hung low, still visible through the stormy fog. It has started to rain hard, and the blue curtains trembled from the force of wind that pressed through the slit the open window’s slit. The girl stood to close the latch.

“Don’t mean to keep you none. I suppose you ought to get home soon. It was real nice of you to stop by,” she said, standing before him, her voice dropping to almost a whisper.

Mark could feel his lungs tighten and electricity shoot up his spine. This was the moment; and it was passing, it was almost gone. In another second he would stand up, say something inane; perhaps shake her hand, then walk out the door. The tesselations in the terrible cheap vinyl flooring under his shoes lept at him like so many identical days ahead. This was the exact opposite of his stupid videos, whose colorful, campy figures flung their limbs around radiating self assurance.

“Hey,” Shayna said. Mark looked up and met her gaze. She took a step closer so she was standing almost between his knees. “Can I come closer?” She tentatively raised a hand as if to touch his shoulder, then let it drop. She was blushing.

“Yes please,” Mark whispered hoarsely, pulling her down to his lap. Shayna pressed a hand to his chest and rested her cheek against his. Outside he could hear wind hissing through leaves and the explosive crack of a tree branch. Rain started to fall on the trailer’s thin roof, at first quietly and then with more power. He wrapped his arms around the small of her back and forced himself to breath. His phone, set to vibrate, started to ring.

“Can I ask a favor?” Shayna said near his ear as he fumbled in his pocket to shut it off, her voice so quiet it was almost inaudible.

“Of course.”

“Can we do the things we wanted to try, but never done before? Just figured, maybe I’d ask. Don’t have to say yes if you don’t want me.”

Instead of going to voicemail, the phone started to ring again.

“God. Yes. Just one moment, please.”

He pulled out his phone to turn it completely off. Then he saw Carli’s name flashing on the screen.

“Hang on, this is my daughter. I have to take this.”

“Oh, of course. Would you like privacy?” She sprang off his lap.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he said over his shoulder. The door hinge creaked as he shut it behind him.

“Hi honey,” he said in a hoarse voice, sending her call through. “My god, what happened?”

“Dad, don’t freak out,” his daughter’s high-pitched voice crackled on the weak connection. “Rick tried to drive me home drunk and hit a guard-rail. I’m in St. Thomas. I had a cut on my arm and lost some blood, nothing stitches can’t fix but they want to keep me overnight. You don’t have to come. I just wanted you to know.”

“Jesus Christ. I’m on my way, sweetheart. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

“Dad, really you don’t have to. I tried to reach mom but she isn’t answering her phone. I guess she’s asleep.”

“Of course I’ll come right away. Please call me if anything changes.”

“Dad, I know how much you hate to talk on the phone in the car.”

He could hear her trying to tease him but could also sense the pain in her voice.

“I’ll be right there,” he repeated, not knowing what else to say.

“OK, I’m going to try to get some sleep. I’m in 4B, but they’ll show you when you get here. So sorry you have to drive three hours in the middle of the night, Daddy. Bye.” She hung up first.

He opened the door but didn’t walk back in.

“Shayna, I have a family emergency. I have to leave at once.”

“Oh, my god. Of course. I hope everything is OK.” She moved toward him, her face expression questioning.

“Thank you. Good bye.” He waved awkwardly, turned and ran down the line of trailers back to his car. As he pulled out of the driveway, wheels spinning, he remembered they had never exchanged contact information. Then he pictured Carli alone in the hospital, trying and failing to reach both parents.

“I would have never forgiven myself,” he thought dully, smashing his foot on the accelerator.